


The President

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fictional country where prostitution is legal, Greg House is an economics professor with his eye on a certain back-up dancer at a strip club. When he’s pressed into becoming President during a national financial crisis, she accompanies him to the Presidential Complex. Just a few scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            The club, if such a dim and smoky little dive could be given a term that in any way implied class or exclusivity, was quiet this evening, its patrons consisting mostly of the few timid and skittish fellows who had dropped by, for the first time, after telling their wives their meeting was running late. They always seemed to figure a Tuesday was somehow the most unlikely night to check out a strip joint. They each sat alone at a darkened table, nursing a drink—just one, a little treat when the “meeting” went past seven—and glancing furtively around them, hoping they went unrecognized. If the waitresses, the dancers, the drinks, and the general atmosphere of the place struck that oh‑so‑important balance between too little attention (“I can get that at home”) and too much (“Is that my boss over there?”), they’d be back, maybe not the next night but sometime next week, and then maybe twice a week, and then maybe twice in a row, and then they’d become the other species to inhabit the club on a Tuesday night: Regulars.

            And him, he corrected. Newbies, regulars, and him. Because while he certainly wasn’t new, he wasn’t a regular, either. Really. There had to be some kind of minimum amount of time you had to lurk here in the shadows before you were considered a regular—like a month. Okay, maybe two.

            He wasn’t even watching the girls, though, at least at the moment. He was sitting at the bar with his scotch—number three for the evening, less than a regular but more than a newbie—his back to the stage, eyes unfocused as he stared down into the golden-brown liquid. What _was_ he, anyway? What did the think he was doing here? If “enjoying himself,” the first snide reply to come to mind, was truly the answer, then his life was indeed as empty and pathetic as Wilson had accused it of being.

            A flash of movement to his right caught his attention and he glanced up to see a young woman in a long black dress sidle up to the bar. He looked away, then back, subtly he hoped, as she waited for the bartender to break some bills for her. The black dress was sleeveless and tight on top, cut low enough to show off considerable pale skin, but the skirt flowed, concealing the shapely legs except for brief glimpses of ankle when she shifted her high-heeled feet. It was far too classy a dress to wear in a place like this.

            He sensed he’d been caught staring and refocused on his own space without risking eye contact. Maybe this was the last time he’d come to this place.

            She drifted closer, until there was only one barstool between them. “Hi,” she said, her voice sweeter, younger than he’d expected. He stole a glance at her wide eyes, then turned away and ignored her. Undeterred, she persisted, “Buy me a drink?”

            “No,” he told her flatly, taking another sip of his own. He didn’t leave, though, and she slid onto the stool next to him and ordered her own drink. He thought he saw a bit of a smile on her face.

            “I’ve never had a fan before,” she commented after a moment, when her Jack and Coke had arrived. Her tone was too conversational to be truly seductive. Might want to work on that.

            He watched her long, pale fingers turn the heavy glass. Light pink nail polish—wouldn’t red have been more alluring? “What makes you think I’m a fan?” he asked, with as little interest and curiosity as he could manage.

            “Most people who come in don’t watch the back-up dancers every night,” she pointed out, almost teasingly. “They’re too distracted by the naked women in the spotlight.”

            “Maybe I’m just here for the music,” he suggested facetiously, finally turning towards her, if only for a brief moment. As if on cue a ghastly tuneless punk song blared out of the speakers and he winced. She smiled a little.

            “Larry said you asked about me,” she added, more quietly, after the music was turned down.

            “You remind me of my daughter,” he told her snidely, taking another drink without looking at her.

            “What’s your name?” she continued. He decided if she wasn’t either bored or offended yet, he wasn’t trying hard enough.

            “What do you care?”

            “I want to tell people who my stalker is, in case I mysteriously disappear some night.”

            He looked at her then, slightly surprised, saw the cheeky smile, and refused to admit he liked it. There was a pause as he considered using a fake name, just getting up and leaving, saying something really rude and cutting. Finally he took a breath, shrugged, and answered, “Greg.”

            “Greg,” she repeated, as if testing it out. “A guy named Greg. Tall...” She looked him over appraisingly. “Walks with a cane.” It was hooked over the bar rail between them. “Works for the University.” His eyes widened at that and he wondered if she had recognized him from some class. He was certain he’d already picked his hottest student to be his TA; no way would he have missed _her_. Besides, she was too young to have taken any of his classes. She smiled again and reached out to touch the breast pocket of his blazer, gently tugging on the piece of paper poking out of it. “Receipt from Fogerty Library on campus,” she observed. “Econ, poli sci, something like that, right?”

            “Clever girl,” he muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink. He refused to confirm or deny her guess. Instead he looked her straight in the eye, crystal blue gaze cutting through the gloom around them, and asked, “So you can dance and pick pockets. What else do you do?”

            She didn’t blink. “I eat dinner.” The tone was leading.

            He swallowed and wished he had another drink. “Where?”

            “There’s a diner around the corner.” Her golden-brown curls brushed the hand he rested on the edge of the counter as she looked towards the door. “They have a midnight special.”

            He didn’t agree to go with her. He threw a few bills on the bar, enough to ensure that he got exactly the kind of service he wanted should he return, then grabbed his cane and pushed himself to his feet. He grimaced a little at the pain in his leg; he’d been sitting there too long. She didn’t say anything, though, or even act like she noticed, as she picked up her coat and purse. He felt faintly ridiculous, an old, scruffy guy with a limp walking out of this place with a beautiful young girl in tow; the envious looks he received from a few of the other patrons—no great specimens of health and beauty themselves—only made him wonder the same thing _they_ were, namely, what _did_ he have that they didn’t?

            The diner was just a couple blocks away through the cool, damp night, and they traveled to it in silence. He could almost pretend he wasn’t even with her; they were just two people who happened to be going to the same place at the same time. When he saw their destination he wished the walk had been longer: a garish red and silver greasy spoon, the lighting too bright and the tables slightly sticky. He felt intensely uncomfortable as they slid into booths facing each other across a once-white table, knowing that any flaws concealed by the smoky haze of the club would be laid bare in the glaring light above them.

            She smiled at the discontented waitress who attended them. “I’ll take the special, please, with a chocolate shake.”

            The waitress grunted in acknowledgement and turned to him. “Coffee.” Unimpressed, she left them.

            “Not hungry?” the girl asked, sliding her coat off.

            “Is Melinda your real name?” he countered abruptly.

            She blinked a little at that; he guessed it was more the question than the tone. “It is now,” she replied, with a rueful little laugh. Interesting.

            “It’s midnight,” he said after a moment, then felt a little stupid when she looked at him in confusion. “I can’t eat this late.”

            “Especially not the kind of food this place serves,” Melinda guessed. He shrugged. “With my schedule this is like dinner time for me.”

            He started to ask her something else about her schedule, with this strange combination of both wanting and _not_ wanting to know any more about her, but he was cut off by the return of the surly waitress. At least the service was _fast_. A platter of food was placed in front of the girl, containing a huge hamburger dripping with grease and a sizable pile of fries glinting golden with oil. An enormous chocolate milkshake joined them. His stomach jumped back in fright just looking at them. “Hey, where’s my—“ A chipped coffee cup on a mismatched plate clattered down in front of him and was filled with a steaming stream of some dark liquid allegedly identified as coffee. A drop of it splattered onto his wrinkled shirt. He contemplated evil things to say and do to the waitress for a minute, then looked across the table to where Melinda was chowing down on her meal. “How can you eat all that and still fit into those clothes?”

            She smiled and dabbed some grease from her mouth with a napkin. “I dance six nights a week,” she explained. “It’s good exercise.”

            “What do you do _after_ dancing?” he asked, sipping the surprisingly palatable brew. He cut off her smart reply by adding, “ _Besides_ eat dinner.”

            She shrugged a little and concentrated on her hamburger. “Sometimes I entertain a few customers from the club now and then.” She didn’t look up at him.

            He snorted. “You’ll have sex with strangers for money, but you won’t dance topless for them?”

            She gave him a look that was a little surprised, a little amused, and a little relieved. “Well, Larry said I could try out for the spotlight if I got these _done_ ,” she told him, indicating her breasts. “I’m a B-cup in a double-D world. But I’m not keen on having surgery just so I can dance topless for strangers.”

            “The strangers you have sex with are less picky, I suppose.”

            “I prefer to think of them as more open-minded,” she countered, with a little smile. “Wider variety of tastes.”

            He watched her eat for a minute, forceful in his silence. She didn’t seem to mind. He supposed she’d seen stranger things than a man who wanted to watch her eat. His leg was beginning to ache but he found himself reluctant to pull the bottle of pills out of his coat pocket; he didn’t care what _she_ thought, she was probably used to people around her popping pills, but he didn’t feel like answering her inevitable questions about it. Instead he spend a few moments shifting in the booth until he was leaning against the cold outside wall, his leg propped up on the seat. The ache eased slightly.

            “So,” Melinda said, switching to the fries. “That guy you came in with. Was he a friend of yours?”

            House frowned at her. “What guy?”

            “A couple weeks ago,” she elaborated, taking a long slurp of her milkshake. “That was the first time I noticed you, anyway, when you came in with that baby-faced guy.”

            He wasn’t sure how he felt about her noticing him. “Oh. Yeah, he’s a friend of mine. It was his birthday.”

            “At the break, Janet—she gave him the lapdance—she said he was really polite,” Melinda went on. “But his friend with the cane was quite rude.” She smirked, just a little, as he narrowed his eyes at her.

            “You don’t get a lot of rudeness in your profession?” he asked pointedly.

            “Not usually from people who are sober,” she noted with a smile. “I think that was what threw her.”

            The waitress returned. He wondered if it was her goal for the evening to finish her shift without actually speaking to the customers. Perhaps she was under some sort of dare from the fry cook. After giving them both a look that nominally asked if they wanted anything else, but clearly said she wouldn’t be happy to bring it to them, she ripped the bill off her pad and slapped it down on the table before stalking off.

            He looked after her from his corner. “I can see why you like it here,” he commented dryly. “Such cheerful service.”

            Melinda regarded him thoughtfully. “I think if she were cheerful, you would hate her just as much,” she decided. He said nothing to that, merely gave her a facetiously disbelieving look, as if he were hurt by her suggestion. She let the bill sit there, faded green paper absorbing a spot of grease on the table, as she licked the salt from the french fries off her fingers. Then she started to reach for it.

            “I’ll get it,” he told her, staring up at the ceiling.

            “Thanks.” She finished off her milkshake, then slid out of the booth and busied herself shaking out her coat and pulling it on while he inelegantly swung his leg back down and extricated himself from the seat. He recalled that he really didn’t like booths.

            “Cheap date,” he commented, looking at their total. He dropped a few bills on the table, along with a miniscule tip—enough to let the waitress know he’d _thought_ about tipping her, but just decided to make it a tiny amount.

            “Well, my _official_ price is higher,” she pointed out carefully. “Especially if I’m still at the club. Then a big chunk of it goes to Larry anyway.”

            They meandered out of the diner and onto the sidewalk. He liked it better outside—it was darker, for one thing, and the air was fresher, with little trace of the grease and old coffee scents that permeated the diner. They stood there for a moment, the silence suddenly awkward. He looked down at the concrete he was twisting his cane against.

            “So... I usually go home now,” Melinda told him. “But we could go somewhere else if you want.”

            “Where do you live?” He really didn’t want to know; he just couldn’t think of anything else to say.

            She hesitated a minute before answering and he kicked himself—way too stalkerish a question. “Downtown,” she finally said, vaguely. “I don’t bring people home, though. I have roommates...”

            “Right.”

            “But if you want to go somewhere else...”

            “You’d just get in a car with me?” He looked up at her, leaning heavily on the cane. He hadn’t thought she was stupid.

            She could tell what he was thinking and shrugged, smiling a little. “People know I left with you,” she pointed out. “The waitress sees me all the time. If I don’t come in to work tomorrow they’ll know where to look.”

            He thought that was a pretty flimsy plan—he could concoct a dozen stories about going home alone that would stand up to casual scrutiny, without anyone the wiser that her body was in the trunk of his car, but he prudently decided not to mention that fact. “Okay then.”

            Melinda waited a beat, then repeated, “So do you want to—“

            “No.”

            “You sure?”

            “Go home,” he told her, watching the cars drive by them on the street.

            “Okay,” she answered, a little reluctantly. “Thanks for dinner.”

            He nodded a little, still looking anywhere but at her. “You need a ride, or...”

            “I catch the bus,” she said, pointing around the corner.

            “Okay.”

            “Okay,” she nodded after a moment. “See ya.”

            He didn’t say anything, just waited until he knew she had turned and started to walk away before glancing up and watching her again. Her long coat further disguised her figure until all he could distinguish was her shoes and her hair, but that was enough. He stood there in the light from the diner as she turned the corner and saw her glance back over her shoulder, just for a moment, and wave a little. He made no response, and then she was gone. He stood there, still, until he saw a bus come by him and turn around the corner—the seven line. He heard it stop at the bus shelter partway down the block, then it geared up again and took off. Then, finally, he turned and limped back to his car.

 **

            He didn’t go back to the club the next night. He didn’t want her to think he had nothing better to do with his life, even if it might be true. Because he was there the night _after_ that. He meant to go back on random nights, only three or four of the six she worked each week, so she wouldn’t be expecting him, but that plan quickly fell through when he realized Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights were busy for _her_ as well as the club. He didn’t much care for sitting through the raucous bachelor parties and “boys’ night out” gatherings that always seemed to be occurring on the weekends anyway—it gave him a headache, all that hooting and whistling and drunken comments thought to be witty—but the turning point had really been watching her make out with a paying customer before leading him to one of the back rooms, under Larry’s beneficent eye. Almost as bad had been the curious looks given to him by the bartender and a few of the regulars, as if they were half-hoping he might throw a fit or start beating the john with his cane.

            So he followed a schedule, predictable as it was. Monday was her day off, but Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights he was at the club, same table near the side while she danced, same bar stool at the end while she changed. They had a drink, then they went to the diner, where she ordered the special—sometimes a hamburger, sometimes spaghetti, sometimes chili—and he had coffee. He was actually beginning to like the stuff and was working up the courage to ask the waitress what brand it was. Or perhaps he could just tell Cameron to put a pot on when she left the office in the evening and let it burn all night—by morning it would probably approximate the diner’s house blend well enough. Once he’d ordered a piece of apple pie, just for a change, but he’d ended up making a mess picking at it after eating one bite, so from then on he stuck with just the coffee.

            They certainly didn’t talk about anything deep, although he noticed with interest that the conversation became less impersonal and more detailed as the evenings went by. Not an uncommon occurrence, he supposed, but he “made new friends” so rarely the process seemed unusual to him. She complained about her roommates; he complained about his students. She told him gossip about the dancers that, he felt, revealed a whole new world of opportunity for anthropological study and, incidentally, made it difficult to even glance at her unclothed co-workers without thinking of their issues with their small children or their mothers. Which made it difficult to glance at them at all. Occasionally he would find himself starting a rant about politics or economics, but he usually shut himself up rather quickly—although, the first time he’d heard their waitress say more than two words together was when she’d jumped in to agree with his tirade about the financial idiocies perpetuated by the current government, and after that she had been much nicer to him.

            “Is that Vicodin?” Melinda asked one night, after she’d seen him pull the pills out several times. “I thought so. We’ve got a big bottle of that backstage. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to wrench your back while pole-dancing.”

            Eventually he’d explained about his leg, introducing Melinda to the wonderful world of infarctions and muscle death. She nodded with interest but no pity, and commented, “I thought you’d blown out your knee or something. Lots of old strippers have knee problems.”

            He choked on his coffee. “Did you think I was an old stripper?” She laughed and assured him that wasn’t quite what she’d meant.

            Each time, he paid the fairly inconsequential bill. Each time, she gave him the opportunity to suggest they go somewhere else, and each time he just said goodnight and watched her walk to the bus stop. She seemed rather bemused by this behavior, and to be honest he was, too; he commented once that he was just letting her “run up a tab” of dinners that he would collect on one of these days, but he’d said it in that obnoxious, half-sarcastic way that Wilson always complained about because he couldn’t tell if House was being serious or not. What House never pointed out was that he usually employed that tone when he didn’t know himself whether he was being serious or not.

            He liked... watching her. Not, he hoped, in a creepy-old-man-stalker sort of way, although frankly he wasn’t sure what other ways there were. He liked watching her dance and he liked watching her walk and he liked watching her eat. And if he’d thought about actually doing more than just watching—at night in bed, say, or in his office preparing a lecture, or at lunch while Wilson was blathering on about his latest marital problems—he really wasn’t prepared to _act_ on those thoughts.

            Maybe he never would be. Maybe one day he’d just stop showing up at the club, try to stop thinking about her, bury himself in writing a new article or book with its scathing attack on the national economy inspired by the comments of Susie the waitress and Jim the fry cook. Wilson, when he managed to lift his head from the sand of his own romantic discord, had already commented on his friend’s increased level of “distraction,” and Cameron couldn’t help but notice how he nearly took her head off when a printer mishap forced them both to stay on campus until after eight one Tuesday night—he’d only missed an hour of Melinda on stage by the time he got to the club, but since he maintained he didn’t do _anything_ in the evenings except go home and watch television, his TA surely found his impatience suspicious. Especially since he had TiVo.

            So if people were noticing that... _something_ was different, maybe it was time to cut himself off. Logically, he supposed, that didn’t make a lot of sense, but he still couldn’t fight the feeling that _that_ was the only proper conclusion to this whole non‑affair. He was thinking about this and watching her eat some grilled flounder one Wednesday evening, or more properly Thursday morning, while the rain trickled down the window at his back and the twenty-four-hour news channel chirped the latest dour economic statistics from the TV in the corner. He hadn’t said much that evening. Melinda commented on it, lightly as always, and he thought about saying he was tired of dealing with his panicky pre-exam students or that he was coming down with a cold or that his leg hurt with the weather, but in the end he just stared up at the ceiling and didn’t say anything.

            He paid the bill, as usual, left the generous tip that had become his usual (and Wilson would have laughed himself sick to see him leaving a huge tip for a waitress at a greasy spoon who _still_ could barely be bothered to refill his coffee cup on a timely basis), and stepped outside into the rain. There was a tiny, almost ineffectual awning above the doorway to the diner and they huddled under it for their good-byes, standing closer than he was entirely comfortable with. Still, he was less comfortable getting wet.

            “So, do you want to...”

            “No.”

            “Okay.” There was a pause, and he waited for her to say something about catching her bus or seeing him later. Instead she asked, a bit apologetically, “Um... do you think you could give me a ride home tonight?” He blinked at her and she started to retract and explain at the same time, quickly. “It’s just that it’ll be a while until the next bus and the shelter leaks, but it’s not really too bad, so I could just wait in here for a while instead...”

            “Sure,” he finally told her, when he could get the word out. She looked at him questioningly. “I can give you a ride.”

            “If it’s not a lot of trouble,” Melinda added. “I’m sure it’s out of your way.”

            “Downtown? Yeah.” She already knew he lived in one of the quiet, professorial neighbors a few blocks off campus, which was the opposite direction from downtown. He looked up at the darkened sky, as if he could see anything through the rain. “I don’t think it’s going to let up soon. My car’s this way.”

            He hated walking in the rain because he hated being wet—Wilson had more than once compared him to a particularly ill-tempered alley cat, for multiple reasons—and because he couldn’t hurry through it. Even with the bum leg he could get a pace going that had Cameron trotting after him—if a needy-looking student were headed towards him, for example—but that was on the dry, unobstructed university floors. He certainly didn’t care to end up facedown on a dirty sidewalk because he’d tried to leap, gazelle-like, over a puddle. So they walked carefully, and got wet.

            It occurred to him, suddenly, that a gentleman probably would have suggested the lady remain inside the diner until he’d brought the car up, but by then they were halfway to the car, and he wasn’t a gentleman anyway; if he’d thought of it earlier he probably wouldn’t have done it. He also didn’t open the passenger-side door for her, although that was less an affront to chivalry because he had a remote-control door opener to unlock both sides at once. He _did_ turn the heat up in the car, right after he’d made the highly illegal U-turn and passed the diner they’d just left, but she wasn’t the only one shivering so it was hardly an altruistic move either.

            After a few minutes of rubbing her hands together in front of the heater, Melinda looked up and realized he seemed to be driving with a plan. “Do you know where you’re going?” she asked, suspicious.

            “Of course,” he assured her. “I bribed one of the girls for your address a month ago.” She stared at him. “No, I’m just following the seven line. I figured you’d tell me when to stop.” She narrowed her eyes at him but finally appeared to accept this answer, which amused him more than he thought reasonable.

            “Up here,” Melinda told him after about ten minutes. He pulled the car over to the curb on a street lined with vintage clothing shops, guitar stores, and walk-up apartment buildings. She smiled at him, which he only saw out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks for the ride. It’s a lot faster than the bus.” She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, so she opened her door and made to get out. He turned to watch her leave, but at the last moment she looked back, leaned across the car, and kissed him—just a soft brush of her lips against his, so quick he barely had time to register it before she was shutting the door and he was staring at a blurry figure through the window, scurrying around the corner.

            He was at the club the next night.

 **

            For the last two weeks the night had been ending at his apartment—or rather, the _trip_ had been ending at his apartment, since neither of them actually got any sleep for at least a couple more hours—so it still had that aura of giddiness and excitement about it that disgusted him so. He hated it when she looked up from her milkshake and smiled promisingly, when her foot brushed against his under the table, when she made a comment that could only be described as flirtatious. He hated it even more when _he_ did something similar in response, or initiated it. He hated it most of all when Susie the waitress saw them at this and smirked knowingly.

            So he was having more fun now, certainly, but he was also feeling more conflicted. And he was also spending more money, because she got dinner _and_ her fee, though that didn’t bother him too much because she wasn’t exactly the highest-priced hooker he’d ever met. And Wilson knew he was up to something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, though he never stopped trying to guess, and that meant House had to spend extra time coming up with witty rejoinders and throwing his friend off the scent. And also wondering _why_ he was so reluctant to tell Wilson about Melinda, when the two of them had a long and torrid history of swapping stories about their romantic and carnal conquests. Thus _more_ conflict.

            Melinda was eating some kind of steak-like object smothered in mushrooms, with her back to the TV. She always sat with her back to the TV, the better to ignore whatever it was showing. Not a big follower of current events, Melinda, but then again House didn’t exactly need a second person to confirm his opinions. The news was showing footage of the protesters who had been outside the Assembly Building that day, marching and demanding the resignation of the country’s chief financial minister.

            “See that one there with the blue hair?” Susie said, nodding at the gaggle of youthful activists. “That’s my boy Joey.”

            “Your boy Joey is an idiot,” House told her, as she refilled his coffee cup.

            “Don’t I know it,” she sighed. “I told him no respectable company would hire him with blue hair. Might as well throw his college education down the toilet.”

            “I meant for protesting,” he clarified, “although the hair is pretty stupid-looking as well. Protesters never achieve anything.” Melinda just shook her head a little and continued eating. “I’m serious. Whether Brewster resigns or not has absolutely _nothing_ to do with a bunch of whiny post-adolescents who decided to skip their boring classes and hang around outside on a nice day yelling at the Establishment and getting on TV. Ten to one, he started cleaning out his office weeks ago, but they’ve got to hang on to him until they find a replacement with some halfway decent ideas. All that stuff is decided behind the scenes, by the President and the Council and the Assembly Leader, weeks or even months before it ever comes out in public—“

            “House?” Blue eyes widening, he turned away from the TV to the doorway, whose jingling bell had just announced the arrival of another late-night customer—one whose appearance had House not bothering to conceal his displeasure. “What are you doing here?” Wilson, dressed more nicely than he usually even did at work, approached the booth like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes—especially when he had assured himself of his friend’s identity and turned his attention towards the second person at the table. “And who’s your friend?”

            The older man was about to make a nasty comment designed to verbally kick Wilson’s ankle and tell him to go away when another figure, even _more_ unwanted, appeared at his side. “I don’t know about this place,” Julie hissed into her husband’s ear, looking around as if she expected muggers to jump out from the booths. “It’s very... sticky, and...”

            “Oh, no, it’s fine, I’m sure,” Wilson told her, with his boundless enthusiasm. “House is eating here, how bad can it be?” Julie’s look suggested it could still be very bad indeed.

            “I’m not eating anything,” House pointed out unhelpfully. Melinda had gone rather still and was watching everyone carefully, searching for clues on how she should behave.

            “Besides, it’s the only place open this time of night,” Wilson continued, and in his mind that settled it. “Mind if we join you?”

            “Yes,” the older man snapped, but Melinda smiled pleasantly and pushed her food across the table, then stood so Julie and Wilson could share her seat. With a long‑suffering sigh House swung his leg down to the floor and scooted over to make room for the teenager. Susie appeared with menus.

            “The midnight special’s pretty good,” Melinda told them. “Steak with mushrooms.”

            “I doubt that’s real steak,” House muttered bitterly.

            Julie was looking at Melinda’s plate dubiously as well. “Maybe I’ll just have a salad,” she told Susie. “No dressing.” She handed her menu back using only the tips of her fingers.

            “I’ll have the special,” Wilson decided cheerfully. “And some coffee.”

            “It’s like battery acid,” House warned. Susie rolled her eyes and walked off. “What are you _doing_ here?” he demanded of his friend, who gave him a reproachful look.

            “I told you Julie and I were going to theatre tonight,” Wilson reminded him. There were a couple of independent playhouses just a few blocks away. “Which you might have remembered, or heard in the first place, if you hadn’t been mooning over...” House gave him a dangerous look. “...whatever you’ve been mooning over for the last several weeks.” Wilson pressed his luck and looked pointedly at the girl across from him.

            She smiled brightly and reached out a pale hand. “I’m Melinda.”

            Wilson shook her hand. “James Wilson. This is my wife, Julie.” The two women greeted each other politely. Julie was still looking around as if compiling a list of health code violations to tell the inspectors about later.

            “Oh, of course, Greg’s mentioned you,” the girl replied pleasantly. Wilson’s eyebrow’s went up and he mouthed, “Greg?” at his friend, who continued to glare at him. “What show did you go to see?”

            “Who cares, who cares,” House muttered. “Hurry up and finish eating.” She gave him a look that made him sigh heavily with reluctant resignation.

            “ _Desire of Grace_ ,” Wilson answered. “Have you heard of it?”

            “Oh, yes,” Melinda assured him. “It’s supposed to be very good. Did you like it?”

            Wilson started to give an answer that looked like a qualified yes, but Julie shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I was _told_ it was good,” she sniffed, “but I was very disappointed. There’s just so much _sex_ and _depravity_ in the theatre nowadays.”

            “But not enough in this show for you?” House guessed snidely. Julie narrowed her eyes at him and ignored him, the way she usually did whenever they had the misfortune of being in the same room together.

            Susie arrived with their food and Julie immediately poked through the entire salad before eating any. House suspected she was looking for bugs. “Thank you,” Wilson told the waitress, smiling with the full force of his boyish charm. She walked away happy as House rolled his eyes. He was smirking meanly a moment later when Wilson took a sip of the coffee and nearly choked.

            “How is it?” the older man asked obnoxiously.

            “Great,” Wilson gasped, setting the cup down.

            “I’m not sure if this lettuce is fresh,” Julie murmured, holding a piece up to the light. She began tearing off the margins of the leaf that had turned slightly brown.

            “So, Melinda,” Wilson began, when he had his voice back, “how did you and... _Greg_ meet?”

            House opened his mouth to say something rude that would give him time to think of a suitable story, but Melinda answered right away. “We met right here one night,” she told Wilson, and it sounded completely natural. “I come here for dinner a lot, after I finish work.”

            “Oh? And where do you work?” Wilson continued, digging into his steak-like object.

            “I’m a dancer,” the girl replied, “in one of the little musicals nearby.” House nearly choked on his _own_ coffee, although he’d gotten used to the brew itself by now. She made an endearing little face and added, before Wilson could say anything, “I don’t want to say which one because it’s, well, _really_ bad, but I like dancing and it helps pay the bills.”

            “Are you a student?” Wilson asked, risking the coffee again. It was in some ways a pointless question, House thought, since about eighty percent of the people in the country could be considered students of some sort.

            “Oh, yes,” Melinda assured him. “Just at my local ComEd, though, not the University.” Good move, House decided. If Melinda had really been a University student, or claimed she was, Wilson would have no trouble pulling her records (or finding out they didn’t exist) with a little help from the secretarial pool, whose members were all on his Slept With, Sleeping With, or Plan to Sleep With Very Soon lists. Local Community Education Centers tended to value their independence from the University and could get quite territorial about their students’ information.

            “What are you studying?”

            “Literature.” House squeezed the handle of his cane under the table as Julie looked up from her close inspection of her only partially-eaten salad. _Bad move, bad move._ Julie was a—

            “My wife teaches high school literature,” Wilson supplied, satisfied by this perceived convergence of interest.

            Melinda appeared delighted. “What are you teaching at the moment?”

            “Well,” Julie replied, pushing her salad plate away daintily, “we’re just starting a unit on the Revivalists.”

            “Oh, I _love_ McMichaels!” Melinda enthused.

            “Really?” Julie seemed dubiously pleased.

            The girl began to recite, “’The sapphire sky o’er golden fields/whose countless eyes survey the clouds—‘”

            “Oh, G-d, please, no poetry,” House begged acidly, dropping his forehead to his hands on the tabletop.

            “’—with guarding trees upon the wings/shading, staying, keeping taut,’” Julie finished, a delighted smile on her face. She elbowed her husband aside a bit to lean forward on the table. “My _favorite_ , though, which I really wish I could teach the students, is Davenheim, but, you know...” Melinda nodded sympathetically. House sighed loudly. “I’m just not sure they’re really mature enough to handle it.”

            “Too much sex and depravity?” House suggested snidely.

            “For those of you who’ve never _read_ Davenheim,” Julie sniffed, denouncing House with her gaze, “he presents some rather adult themes in a compelling, thought-provoking, _tasteful_ way. Completely unlike the ridiculous performance we saw tonight, which had all the emotional depth and artistic ability of a _strip show_.”

            “Obviously you need to go to better strip shows,” House told her. He looked straight at Wilson as he added, “You know, there’s a little joint just around the corner—“ Wilson kicked him under the table, sharply. Julie was not meant to know about his little birthday excursion.    

 **

            Wilson was not surprised that House did not appear from the front door of his apartment building when the younger man pulled his car up to the curb. He was not even surprised when he’d waited five minutes and his friend had not yet come out, although he started to get irritated. After ten minutes, Wilson turned his irritation into action, turning off his car and exiting it forcefully before pushing his way into the building and taking the stairs to the second floor.

            First he knocked on the apartment door. Then he knocked again. Then, because it was somewhat early and he didn’t want to disturb the neighbors, Wilson pulled out his spare key, unlocked the door, and tentatively entered. He could hear the shower running in the background and sighed—could be another fifteen minutes, then. “House?” he called out, heading towards the bathroom. “House, come on, we’ve got the departmental meeting this morning. Just for _once_ I would like to _not_ walk in late—“

            The water shut off abruptly as he neared the bathroom door. Wilson swerved and glanced into the bedroom, seeing only the messy, unmade bed. “I’m going to pick out something decent for you to wear,” he announced over his shoulder, heading towards the closet. “Something with a tie. If we’re going to sneak in late, you could at _least_ be wearing a tie...”

            “But, _Mom_ ,” his friend whined from the doorway, making Wilson jump, “a tie would clash with my Sex Titans t-shirt.”

            Wilson rolled his eyes and turned around, only to do a double-take when he saw that House was already fully dressed, or at least what he probably _considered_ fully dressed, Sex Titans t-shirt and all. Confusion clouded the younger man’s features, even though he knew how much twisted pleasure his friend would take in that reaction. “Did you—get dressed in the bathroom?” he guessed lamely.

            “Yes,” House replied solemnly. “And then I left the shower running to throw you off. Feel free to dig through my closet anyway, though.”

            It actually sounded like something House might do, causing confusion in his friend as a practical joke, although his methods were usually more elaborate. Which meant either there was more to this scheme—like heavy objects waiting to fall out of the closet on him when he opened the door—or there was no scheme at all and House was just lying to him. But lying about what? What was he up to this early—

            “As much fun as it is to see the array of expressions moving across your face as you attempt to dissect my motivations,” House interrupted, limping towards the couch where his coat was haphazardly tossed, “you _are_ the one who insisted we were going to be late, so...”

            House in the mood to go to work? Especially a departmental meeting? Now Wilson really _was_ suspicious. He tried to put his observational skills to work, as his friend would have. The bathroom door, he noticed, was still closed, but the light was on underneath it. “There’s someone else here, isn’t there?” he asked, voicing changing from tentative to triumphant when he saw House’s eyes narrow at him. “There _is_!”

House rolled his eyes and headed towards the door. “Are we leaving or not?”

            “Hang on,” Wilson told him mischievously, “don’t you want to say good-bye? It’s kind of rude to just leave...” He was enjoying this idea way too much.

            “I’m a rude kind of guy,” House pointed out sharply, and Wilson knew he’d scored. “I’m leaving now. I’ll think of an embarrassing reason to tell the department why you’re late.”

            “Is it that girl from the diner? Melinda?” Wilson hadn’t moved from his spot near the doorway to the bedroom. Of course, no one had made a sound or movement in the bathroom, either, but surely she/he/it/they could hear the conversation in the living room and were waiting for the outcome.

            “Possibly something involving a drug overdose, or explosive diarrhea,” the older man continued, twisting his cane in his hands.

            “Of course,” Wilson continued, his resolve starting to fail, “if it’s _not_ Melinda, whoever it _is_ probably isn’t going to be happy that I mentioned her...”

            “No, no, I told _your mom_ all about Melinda,” House retorted snidely, “and she realizes this is just a fling. Very understanding woman, your mother.”

            Wilson narrowed his eyes. “Invoking my mother to incite anger and distract me means... I’m getting too close to the answer,” he decided thoughtfully.

            “Good G-d, you’ve been hanging around me too much,” House snapped. “Get some new friends.”

            “So it _is_ Melinda,” Wilson reasoned, with great satisfaction, “and the fact that you want to leave before she does means she’s either going to stay here all day, or she has her own key, both of which indicate an unusually high level of trust and intimacy...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> President House is sick, and Melinda seems to be the only one who can help him.

            Melinda headed carefully down the airport stairs, tucking her sunglasses away in her purse. They were hardly necessary now that she was back in the foggy city, after all. Still, she supposed that, after a while, even a sunny tropical beach would grow dull. After a _long_ while, maybe. Longer than a week’s vacation, anyway. At the foot of the stairs she started to turn right, aiming for the baggage carousel, when a familiar voice called to her. “Melinda!”

            She turned to see an attractive blond jogging towards her through the crowd. “Hello, Dr. Chase,” she greeted pleasantly. “I guess he must be feeling better if he sent you to pick me up.”

            “Hardly,” the young man replied shortly, shaking his head. “Dr. Wilson sent me. I’m to get you back to the complex as soon as possible.”

            The teenager frowned. “I don’t understand. Is Greg doing _worse_?”

            “He’s a _menace_ ,” Chase informed her sourly. He directed two dark-suited men to grab Melinda’s bags from the line gliding by and propelled her towards his car waiting near the exit. “He won’t take his medicine, he won’t drink enough, all he does is yell at us and tell us to go away,” he continued, once in the privacy of the vehicle. His tone indicated that he’d had very nearly all of the situation that he could take.

            Melinda’s luggage safely stowed away, Chase started the car up and pulled away from the airport at an alarming speed. “Dr. Wilson and Dr. Cuddy are talking about having him hospitalized, just so they can stick IVs in him. And let the nurses deal with him,” he added under his breath.

            Melinda stared at him in confusion. “So he’s not so much _doing_ worse, as just _acting_ worse?” She certainly knew what Greg was like when he got p---y, and it wasn’t pretty; him being p---y because he was _sick_ ought to be rather hideous. But surely the people around him had experience dealing with that previously.

            Chase was ignoring her, though, flipping open his cell phone and speed-dialing while at the same time swerving around traffic. Melinda gripped the handle on her door more tightly. “I wish Dr. Wilson let me use the flashing red lights and sirens for this,” he told her a bit petulantly as he waited for the call to be answered. “That would have been awesome. Dr. Wilson?” Great, now his attention was split between the road and the conversation on the phone. “Yeah, I’ve got her, we’re coming back to the complex now. Okay.”

            He hung up, for which Melinda was extremely grateful, since she wanted to live to see the complex again. The blond glanced at her quickly and apparently decided to correct his perceived inattention earlier by resuming his complaints. “Yeah, he’s been a real nightmare. I don’t know if you can do anything with him or what, but...”

            “But that’s what I’m paid to do, right?” Melinda asked him, not sharply, but not really looking at him either. _Welcome home._ At least she _got_ a vacation.

            She could almost feel Chase thinking about her comment, then brushing it aside in favor of all the things he’d been brooding about while waiting for her plane to land. “Foreman gave up on him pretty quick, no surprise there,” he commented a bit condescendingly. “Probably won’t care if House rolled over and died. _I_ tried, but...” He shrugged, making a sharp turn that didn’t keep all four wheels completely on the ground. “I don’t know how he even has the energy to come up with insults at the moment. And then _Cameron_ , well, she just _lives_ for this kind of thing, you know”—smothering people with concern, that is—“but he overturned a bowl of soup on her, and even _she_ couldn’t pretend like it was an accident at _that_ point, so...”

            Melinda kept her eyes on the swiftly-passing scenery, knowing he was wondering if she were even listening. Chase would keep talking, trying to get a response from her, and it would be more honest and less embellished than if she acted interested and encouraged him. Maybe House’s methods were _finally_ wearing off on her, she thought sardonically. “And, um...” Chase continued, dismayed by her lack of reaction, “Dr. Wilson is pretty much the only one who can get him to eat anything at all, but he’s, you know, busy trying to run the country...” He paused. “Did I mention Dr. Cuddy was at the complex _right now_ trying to get the paperwork done overruling House’s judgment, so she can get him hospitalized?”

            “Yes,” Melinda told him shortly.

            “He won’t drink enough water, he won’t take any medicine,” Chase repeated, finally focusing on the road as they turned onto the narrow streets of the government district. “But he can’t do any work, either—won’t even sign any papers or listen to briefings. He just lays in bed all day. The country’s at a standstill!”

            Melinda somehow doubted that. Dr. Wilson was a resourceful man, and she had a feeling he knew how to get things done even without official permission.

            “Dr. Cuddy wanted to call you back from vacation right away,” Chase went on, sounding somewhat bitter that none of his revelations had gotten much reaction from the girl. “But House wouldn’t let her. He said absolutely not.”

            Melinda was finally truly surprised and turned to the young doctor to express it, but they had pulled up at the government complex and he was already hopping out of the car while an attendant held her door open for her. “Take her bags up to the suite,” he ordered an employee authoritatively, already hustling Melinda towards the elevator.

            She had always thought Chase was a bit of a brat, with a penchant for sucking as much power out of any responsibility he was given as possible, and his current behavior certainly wasn’t changing her mind. “Sorry, government emergency,” he told two people who tried to get on the elevator with them, while Melinda rolled her eyes. He yanked his cell phone out again. “Yeah, we’re on our way up. Any second now.” If he could have ordered the elevator to go faster, Melinda knew he would have—not necessarily to get her to House any more quickly, but just because he _could_.

            Two security checkpoints later they were finally walking into the Presidential suite, whose living room was crowded with sober, stressed-out government employees who all turned to _her_ the moment she passed the threshold. “She’s here,” Chase announced unnecessarily. “I brought her.”

            Dr. Cuddy was standing in the center of the room, an imposing figure in spite of—or maybe because of—the low-cut blouse she wore with such confidence. After a moment of staring at the girl she turned back to Dr. Wilson and rattled the piece of paper she carried at him. “Dr. Wilson, this is just a waste of time,” the Assembly Leader protested, as if she had done so many times before. “He is completely ignoring potentially serious risks to his own health, let alone endangering the stability of the country, and that is all the criteria you need to—“

            “Um, excuse me, Dr. Cuddy,” Wilson interrupted graciously, stepping around the couch to Melinda. She tried to make her smile at him at least partly real, because Dr. Wilson had always been a good friend to House, and nice to her as well. “Melinda. I’m glad to see you again, um...” He rubbed the hair on the back of his head like he did when he was anxious about something but trying not to show it. “How was your trip?” Her smile broadened; she appreciated the question, however forced it was, and however many other people in the room groaned in frustration when they heard it.

            “It was fine, Dr. Wilson, thank you,” she answered politely, then glanced at the closed door to House’s bedroom. “I should probably go in and check on Greg...”

            Wilson stepped back. “By all means, of course.”

            Turning her back on the group in the living room, Melinda pushed through the doorway into the darkened room, where the air was stale and too warm. She shut the door behind her and flipped on the light, causing the lump under the covers on the bed to squirm and scuttle suddenly like a surprised cockroach. “Turn the f‑‑‑‑‑g light off!” Greg growled, his voice scratchy. “And get out, whoever you are.”

            Melinda ignored the orders and walked to the bed, toeing discarded clothes and used tissues out of her way. A plate with two pieces of toast, one missing a bite, and several half-full (or half-empty, as House might say) glasses of water littered the nightstand. She shook her head and decided the place could use a good cleaning. “I heard you weren’t feeling good, baby,” she told him with a smile, watching the covers twitch again as he rolled onto his back and stuck his head out.

            He was even scruffier and more disheveled than usual, with dark circles under his eyes, which narrowed sharply in the light. “What the h—l--?” he muttered, flopping back onto the pillows. “I _told_ them not to call you back early—“

            “They didn’t, sweetie,” she assured him, putting a cool hand on his forehead. He was burning up, so she went to the bathroom to fetch a thermometer from the medicine cabinet. She knew _she_ had put one in there, even if _his_ main contribution had been painkillers and dental floss.

            “Is it Tuesday already?” he asked in some confusion.

            “Wednesday,” Melinda corrected, returning with the thermometer.

            “S—t,” he mumbled as she thrust the object into his mouth. “I go’a ge’ u’—“

            “Don’t try to talk,” she warned him. “Keep that under your tongue.” He glared petulantly. “I hear you’ve been a bad patient,” she continued with a bit of a smile, and he rolled his eyes. “Refusing to take your medicine? Throwing soup?” The digital thermometer beeped and Melinda removed it to stare at the display.

            “It was tomato soup,” he muttered, as if that explained it. “I hate tomato soup.”

            “One-hundred-point-five,” Melinda read, taking the instrument back to the bathroom.

            After a moment House heard the shower start. “What are you doing?” he called suspiciously.

            “You need a shower,” Melinda informed him. “A shower, some fluids, food if you can keep it down”—she walked out of the bathroom, wiping her damp hands on her dress—“and your medicine.”

            He rolled onto his side again, back to her, yanking the covers over himself. “G-d, all I want to do is sleep,” he whined. “Except I can’t sleep. I feel like c—p.”

            “Believe me, baby,” Melinda assured him, stripping the blankets away despite his protests, “you will feel much better after a shower. Come on.” Grudgingly, very grudgingly, he sat up with his legs over the side of the bed, taking his cane and then resting for a moment, even that exertion taxing him.

            “I get dizzy,” he mumbled, forehead resting on the hands folding over the cane. “You can’t catch me if I start to fall.”

            Melinda didn’t let that worry her. “Well if you start to fall, I will push you away from sharp edges,” she told him. “And I put the seat in the shower.” He made a put-upon whining noise. “You’re sick, you need it. Come on.”

            He stood, shakily, bracing heavily on the cane. For a moment she wondered if maybe this hadn’t been a good idea after all, then he started taking small, reasonably steady steps in the direction of the bathroom while she watched him, hawk-like, for any signs of vertigo. “You seen the people they have in ads for those things?” he was complaining. “They’re, like, eighty or something. So appealing, naked 80-year-olds in the shower. It’s a wonder they sell any product.”

            He stopped at the bathroom doorway, leaning against it for a few moments. He was sweating and his breath came in pants. She tried not to rush him. “Nice cool shower,” Melinda enticed, rubbing his back through his stained t-shirt. “And I’ll change your sheets and get you some clean clothes to wear...”

            “Stop, you’ll spoil me,” he deadpanned, taking a deep breath and crossing the threshold into the bathroom. He stopped short of the bathtub, turning instead to face the toilet, one hand braced on the wall above it. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “You gonna watch or what?”

            Melinda rolled her eyes and turned back to the bedroom. “I’m leaving the door open, though,” she told him, grabbing the wastebasket from beside the dresser and starting to scoop up the dirty tissues.

            “And you claim you aren’t kinky,” he answered, though his voice held less snap than usual. She ignored his comment, and the other normal sounds coming from the bathroom, and began picking up the discarded clothes from the floor, tossing them into the hamper in the closet. The place could use a good vacuuming as well, but that would have to wait until he was feeling well enough to move to the couch in the other room.

            “Are you getting in the shower?” Melinda asked with some concern after a moment, when she heard nothing from the bathroom.

            “I’m thinking about it,” he replied cryptically, and she deposited a load of dirty t‑shirts in the hamper and rounded the corner into the bathroom. House was leaning against the wall facing the bathtub, as if plotting out exactly what movements would be needed to accomplish the monumental task before him.

            “Let me take your shirt off,” Melinda suggested, and she knew how tired he really was when he didn’t protest. Of course he didn’t exactly make it _easy_ for her to pull the shirt off over his head, either. “Pants?”

            “I can take off my own pants, thanks,” he snapped sarcastically, although he appeared to be making no move to do so.

            Melinda ignored his sullen tone. “Of course you could,” she assured him, firmly grabbing the waistband of the sweats. “But why would you want to?” She tugged the loose-fitting fabric down and crouched to untangle his feet from it. “Isn’t it more fun to have someone else do it?” He grunted and managed to “accidentally” swat her with his cane. Twice.

            She scooted out of the way and let him climb into the tub himself, leaning on his cane while swinging the good leg over first. He glared at the plastic-and-metal seat she had put in the tub, but dropped himself onto it somewhat heavily after a moment and closed his eyes, letting the lukewarm spray of the shower wash over him. “Doesn’t that feel good?” she suggested cheerfully. Come to think of it, after being in airports and airplanes all day, a shower would be nice for _her_ too. That would have to wait, though.

            “It feels... _wet_ ,” he remarked petulantly. “I’m getting water in my eyes.”

            Melinda reached up to the shower head and removed the handheld portion, holding it out until he took it. “And you laughed at me for wanting one,” she chided lightly. “See how useful they are?” She grabbed the soap and shampoo from the corner of the tub and set them on the edge near him along with a wash cloth. “Can you take it from here? I was going to change your sheets.”

            “Some service,” he muttered. “I don’t even get _bathed_? Do I have to be _dying_ for that?”

            Sensing the sarcasm meant he was feeling slightly better, Melinda just smiled at him and started to leave the room. “I’m keeping the door open,” she warned him, “and don’t try to get out by yourself, okay?”

            “Oh, I’m going to be in here until you come back and do my back,” he decided nastily. “And scrub between my toes. I seem to have developed an interesting fungus while you were gone...”

            The teenager shook her head and went back into the bedroom, stripping the sheets quickly from the large bed. The blankets should go as well; no telling how long _they_ had been used. She wished the room had windows she could open, to let in some fresh air, but they would have to make do. She glanced quickly back through the bathroom door and saw House fumbling with the shampoo, so she felt safe slipping back into the living room with her arms full of dirty bedclothes.

            All conversation ceased, again, the moment she appeared. “Um, how’s he doing?” Dr. Wilson asked, cocking his head at the sounds from the suite. “Is that the shower running?”

            “Yes, he’s taking a shower right now,” Melinda reported, dumping the blankets on the couch beside Chase, who jumped up and away from them like they contained the plague. “I’m changing his sheets now, and I’m going to get him something to eat and drink. Does he have prescription medicine to take or...?”

            “No, we could never get him to the doctor,” Wilson confessed. “We’ve just been trying to get some over-the-counter stuff into him...” He looked around for Cameron, who pulled a couple crumpled boxes out of her pocket and passed them on. Wilson handed them over to Melinda immediately. “The blue ones are for night, to help him sleep, and the orange ones are for day.”

            Melinda glanced at the dosage instructions on the back of the box of orange pills, then looked up at the others in the room, specifically House’s main assistants Chase, Foreman, and Cameron. “These blankets are too big for the washer in the suite,” she explained, indicated the coverings she had left on the couch. “Could someone have them taken to a commercial laundry?”

            Volunteers were reluctant, but finally Foreman tossed the magazine he’d been reading onto the coffee table. “Sure, I’ll do it,” he answered in a long-suffering tone.

            Melinda smiled brightly at him. “Great, thank you. I better go back and check on Greg, but if someone could get me a glass of orange juice and some toast, very light, more like warm bread...”

            “Um, we don’t have any orange juice,” Cameron told her, and Melinda blinked at her.

            “Okay,” the teenager answered patiently, “how about some other kind of juice?” Cameron stepped back into the kitchenette and opened the refrigerator door, then shook her head at Melinda. The younger woman took a breath and tried to keep her tone pleasant. “Some kind of clear soda?” Again negative. “Okay, how about a glass of water, and let’s start a grocery list, alright? Are there any more tissues? The kind with lotion in them?”

            “We gave him the last box a couple days ago,” Chase reported helpfully.

            Melinda closed her eyes briefly. Did these people have _no_ idea how to take care of a sick person? “Well, that should go on the list, too,” she decided carefully, “along with orange juice, apple juice, clear soda, grape juice, fresh fruit”—Cameron had finally started scribbling notes on a pad of paper near the fridge—“plain bread, saltine crackers, and soup, but not tomato.” Cameron looked up at her expectantly. “Maybe someone could go and get that stuff _now_?” Melinda prompted, and Cameron took the hint.

            Dr. Wilson looked quite pleased. “Well, it seems like you have the situation under control,” he pronounced, glancing pointedly at Dr. Cuddy and the paper she carried. “I think we’ll just let you take charge, and check back later. If that’s okay,” he added hurriedly.

            “I think that would be fine, Dr. Wilson,” Melinda assured him. She was feeling a bit anxious at having left Greg alone for so long, but Dr. Wilson was the last person she wanted to be rude to. “I’m sure you have a lot of things to do, so...”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A recurring dream.

            The club was smoky and dim, the assorted well-dressed denizens fading into the darkness along with their white-clothed tables. Even the small orchestra could be heard much more easily than seen, though they must have been nearby. There was a spotlight on _him_ , though, making the white jacket of his tuxedo glow blindingly, while the ruby red carnation at his lapel stood out like a splatter of blood.

            His crystal-blue gaze traveled the room, searching for something he couldn’t quite name—but he knew he hadn’t yet found it among the faceless crowd. Then suddenly another spotlight appeared, at the other end of the room. In it stood a young woman, talking to some indistinct person of little importance. Tonight she wore a short, simple dress of shimmering emerald green that highlighted her otherworldly eyes and slender curves; sometimes the dress was different, though, red or pink, flowing or sheer, lush velvet or buttery satin. Her hair cascaded in honey-brown waves around her pale shoulders, and her sleek legs took a long, long time to reach the ground.

            She turned suddenly, and their eyes met. He knew they’d never seen each other before, but they both moved towards each other in unspoken agreement, meeting in the middle of the dance floor. The musicians struck up a dramatic tune that all but compelled them to dance, twin spotlights encompassing them in brilliant color while the rest of the scene faded away. He could never tell if they were doing the rumba, the tango, or some other passionate Latin dance, but their bodies moved together smoothly, effortlessly, as if they’d been practicing for years.

            His feet glided across the floor; her legs twined with his, then spun away, the fabric of her dress sparkling in the light. Pulling lightly on her outstretched hand he drew her back for an intimate embrace, her body warm and solid against his. The music coursing through his veins, he felt his legs and hips moving almost of their own accord, with such grace and style he wished he could stand back and watch himself. The music ended as he dipped his elegant partner, the arch of her body held motionless for endless, impossible seconds before finally straightening back up effortlessly. He stared down into her glowing eyes, alive with excitement and pure joy at the beauty of their dance, and he began to lower his head, aiming for her parted, pink lips.

            He never got there. Every time, he never got there. Instead he opened his eyes to the darkened bedroom, phantom music still ringing in his ears. He was on his side, the left of course, and he could see her sprawled on her stomach just a few inches away, one arm curled under the pillow. He reached out a hand to gently brush her hair back from her face, but an unintended shift in his position awakened the raw ache in his leg. He closed his eyes tightly and froze, hoping against all reason that it would just _go away_. His bottle of pills was always nearby, on the nightstand in fact, but rolling over, fishing one out, swallowing it—that would not only bring on further agony, it would also wake him up more. And her, too, probably, so that when he finally settled back down he would be facing eyes filled with the most predictable and annoying concern, instead of excitement and joy.

            He felt a light touch on his stubbled cheek and realized she was awake already, but he refused to open his eyes. If he just held very, very still, perhaps his leg would let up for once. “You okay?” she mumbled.

            “Yes,” he snapped, teeth gritted. “Go back to sleep.” The hand fell away.


End file.
